The Observant Little Girl: A Tale of a Mysterious Fathers Visit
Little Beatrice, careful not to be noticed, watched in silence as her father led an elderly woman into her tiny bedroom. The woman was small and wrinkled.
“Yes, Mother,” her father said, “its not as spacious as your house, but the conditions are much bettercentral heating, running water, a proper bathroom. Once we sell your place and buy a bigger flat, youll have your own room.”
“Oh, but why is the bed so small?” the old womans voice was soft but firm. “Even someone my size wouldnt fit in it!”
“Its Beatrices, your granddaughter. Dont worry, well get you a proper bed.”
“But then therell be no space left!”
“Do you plan on running about like a child?” Her father chuckled. “Itll be fineyoull manage!”
“And Beatrice?”
His voice suddenly hardened. “Yes. Patricias daughter.”
“She is also yours,” the woman corrected gently, unshaken by his sharp tone. “God rest her soul, poor Patty.”
Instinctively, Beatrice crossed herself.
Her mother had been beautiful and kind, adoring her daughter, whom shed named after the heroine of a beloved novel. Beatrice remembered her mothers smile whenever her father, Peter, came home. He, too, had been warm and playful, always bringing her toys and affection.
Then, one day, everything crumbled. Her mother didnt wake up. Beatrice didnt understand why everyone wept, why her father seemed angry and distant. The dreadful word “passed,” repeated by every visitor, haunted her, though she didnt grasp its meaning.
Soon, they drove for hours in silence until her father parked and said heavily, “Mummy isnt with us anymore, Beatrice. Youll live with me and my family now. You have two brothers.”
Beatrice felt a flicker of hopeuntil they arrived at his flat. A dishevelled woman shrieked, “Why have you brought this burden here? Take care of her yourself! I wont raise your illegitimate child!”
Beatrice shrank against the wall as twin boys, twelve years old, emerged. They sneered.
“Who are you?” one demanded. “Some scarecrow?”
The other snatched her bag, dumping its contents. “Whats this rubbish? Dug it out of a bin?” He stomped on her belongings.
Beatrice screamed. The womanHelenshouted, “See? Trouble already! Why are you crying, brat?”
With tears in her eyes, Beatrice looked to her father. Coldly, he ordered, “To your room! And youcome with me!”
He led her to a cramped space, once a storeroom. “Listen, Beatrice. Your mother is gone. Youll live with us. That woman is my wife, Helen. The boys are my sons, David and Simon. Try to get along.”
He left, returning later with an old bed and rickety table. “Make yourself at home.”
Life became unbearable. Helen scowled at her, complaining of extra work. The twins pinched and shoved her. Beatrice learned to stay hidden, playing with a tattered dollher only relic of the past.
Sometimes, the boys taunted her until their father intervened. After that, they tormented her in secrettripping her, stealing her food. She ate alone, often porridge or thin soup while the family had pastries. Only her father, occasionally, slipped her sweets.
She longed for school, for friendsbut that was years away.
Then came a new housemate: her grandmother. Beatrice curled on her bed, watching as the old woman settled in. Her father and the twins squeezed in an old sofa and a small wardrobe, leaving barely room to move.
“Lets get acquainted,” the woman said, sitting. “Im Mrs. Clara, your fathers motherso your grandmother. You may call me that.”
“Beatrice,” she whispered. She didnt trust kindness anymore.
Yet, they became alliestwo outcasts. The family dared not insult Clara openly, but Beatrice heard Helen mutter about “that mad old woman.” The twins sabotaged herbreaking her glasses, spilling tea, scattering tacks in her slippers. But unlike Beatrice, Clara ate with the family.
“Peter, why isnt Beatrice at the table?” Clara once asked.
“No room!” Helen snapped.
“Nonsense! The boys can scoot over.”
David scoffed, “I wont sit with some stray!”
Clara sighed. “Shes your sister!”
“Peter!” Helen shrieked. “Control your mother!”
Peter hesitated, but Clara raised a hand. “I see now. I wont dine with you again.” She stood, shaking her head. “Shameful!”
One night, creeping to the bathroom, Beatrice overheard Helen hissing, “When will you sell her house? I wont tolerate thisfirst your bastard, now your demented mother? What about our real children?”
“The probates backed up!” Peter muttered. “Soon, well sell!”
“And send your mother away! To a home!”
“Fine, fine!”
“And deal with the girl! She doesnt belong here!”
Beatrice fled back to her room. “Grandmother! Clara!” she whispered, shaking the sleeping woman.
Clara stirred. “You called me ‘Grandmother’this must be serious.”
“They want to send you away! Sell your house!” Beatrice stammered, tearful.
Claras eyes gleamed. “Good you told me. Now, sleep.”
The next morning, Helens shrieks woke Beatrice. Clara, calmly packing, said, “You wanted my money, didnt you? Well, youve failed!”
Spotting Beatrice, she ordered, “Get readyyoure coming with me!”
Peter rushed home, furious. “Where do you think youre going?”
“With me,” Clara said firmly. “To the countryside. And if you resist, Ill tell Alexander everything.”
Alexander, Peters sharp-tongued lawyer brother, was his greatest fear. Peter sat, defeated.
Hand in hand, Clara and Beatrice left. At the door, Clara turned back. “Shame on you.”
***
Months later, Beatrice called for her cat, Maisie. “Where have you wandered off to? Your kittens are due any day!”
A sleek car pulled up. A well-dressed couple stepped out. “Excuse me, poppet,” the man said. “Does Mrs. Clara live here?”
“Im the lady of the house!” Beatrice said boldly.
A laugh rang outClara, beaming. “Alex! Anna! How lovely! Come in!”
Over tea and cake, Beatrice learned Alex was Claras youngest son. That evening, Anna took her to see the village while Alex spoke with Clara.
“Who is she?” he asked.
Clara told him everything. Alex sighed. “I never liked Helen. Greedy, crueland shes poisoned those boys.”
Later, as Beatrice slept, the trio whispered.
“Are you sure?” Clara fretted. “I wont have her hurt again.”
“Mother, we adore her,” Alex said. “Anna especially. And Christopher will be thrilled to have a sister.”
The next morning, Alex woke Beatrice. “Uncle Alex?”
“How would you like to visit us?”
“But Grandmother”
“Shell join us later. Maisies about to have kittensshell be busy.”
“Really? May I?”
“You must!”
***
Two years later, Beatrice chirped into the phone, “Grandmother! Holidays at last! Christopher and I are coming for the whole summer!”
Clara held the receiver away, laughing. “And your parents?”
“Just us! Were big now!”
Hanging up, Clara wiped a joyful tear. Since Alex and Anna had adopted Beatrice, she visited only on breaksbut she was happy, cherished, part of a family at last.
Clara hurried to the kitchen, humming as she set the cake batter to rise.
